Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  Mot clutched the wool blanket around her and said, “I know I owes ya thanks, ya know, Healer.”

  “What, for being carted all over Righar with a wanted color mage?” Kirian smiled.

  “Well, there’s that. I ain’t used to bein’ chased, except by Harik and Niley. But ya said ya’d find me a place, when this is done. I sorta liked the kitchen garden, at th’ Castle. Ain’t nothin’ like that back home, except fer Lake Heart of course. Thought I might like to learn how to grow things.”

  “Many houses hire a gardener or a housekeeper who can grow a good kitchen garden,” Kirian said. “And Healers need herbs as well—some we gather wild, but we cultivate as many as we can. We will try to find a place for you where you can learn.”

  “Suppose I owe Chiss as well, for plantin’ me on the second cook,” Mot said. “Though I think he did it just so he could be rid o’ me.”

  “He was in a hurry,” Kirian said. “I am glad it worked out.”

  She squeezed the girl’s hand. Mot burrowed under her blanket, looking her age for a change. Kirian went out of the house and back up to the room above the armory, smiling.

  Callo was burrowed under the covers as well, half-asleep. He stirred and mumbled something as she climbed into bed next to him. Kirian curled up behind him, her breast to his back, and felt the heat he generated fill up the space under the wool blanket.

  “Love you.” His voice was rough with sleep.

  “Be careful tomorrow,” she whispered. “Take care, my dearest.” She listened for a moment for some response, but Callo had fallen back asleep, and there was none.

  Chapter Twenty

  It was still dark when Kirian awakened. Muffled sounds in the courtyard below told her it was time. The other side of the bed was cold and empty. Callo’s sword was gone from its place beside the door. She pulled on her clothes, said a silent prayer to the Unknown God to protect them all, and grabbed her Healer’s bag as she walked out the door. She doubted she would be coming back here again.

  The air was chilly and slightly damp. The moon stood above the roofs of the city. It was still night in fact, too early for the morning vendors and servants to be going about their business. The horses were quiet in the stable. Kirian shivered, partly from the chill and partly from nerves.

  Hira Noh’s people moved about the courtyard, readying themselves for the day’s activities. A shielded lamp stood on the long table the servants had set up for them last night. There was a spread of cold meat and apples, but no sign of any servants or of Hon Sia.

  “She is frightened now,” Hira Noh said when she saw Kirian looking around for the merchant’s wife. “She will not come out until we are gone. Don’t try to thank her. She regrets allowing us in here.”

  “But she didn’t kick us out last night,” Kirian said. “That’s something.”

  “She was afraid to do that too,” Hira Noh said. “She craves the company of people who are in the midst of things and loves to rebel against her husband. But things are serious now. She fears she has gone too far.”

  Kirian took a piece of bread and some ham from the table. The ham was cold and salty on her tongue, and her stomach woke up, growling. She ate that and then put an apple in her bag to take with her.

  Callo was talking to Chiss and Balan near the outer door. Callo was cloaked, the hood pulled up over his fair hair. As she watched, Callo reached out to grip Chiss’ hand, and Kirian realized she was seeing a farewell. A protest caught in her throat, but she suppressed it. She stayed where she was and watched as Callo joined Oron near the gate, and slipped out into the dark streets as soon as the sentry pulled the door open for them.

  “You will see him later, if all goes well,” Hira Noh said. “That is, if you insist on joining us?”

  “I won’t sit in a safe place and worry while he challenges the King,” Kirian said.

  “He ordered Rhin to get you to safety in the Healer’s College.”

  Kirian grinned. “As if he has the authority to tell me what to do.”

  Hira laughed, low in the night. “They are all alike, these righ men. Ordering people around.”

  “I am ready,” Kirian said. “Tell me exactly what to do, so I do not get in your way.”

  “You heard the plan last night. They stand a much better chance of getting into the castle with just Oron and Callo, who can use magery to stifle suspicion. I think that is true, with the castle on guard. Though things have returned to normal this morning, and the castle sentries are back to their usual pattern, according to my people.”

  “Then?”

  “We approach the castle on foot, in parties of four or less, and we take up positions as near as we can safely get. If Callo succeeds, and makes it to the doors, we will aid him out of the castle gates and the city with force of arms. Kel and the others on the outside will join us as soon as they can get past the gates. That will give us nigh on fifty people altogether, enough to make a respectable showing against Martan’s guard.”

  “We are all likely to lose our heads.” Balan joined them. He wore his chain mail, and for the first time Kirian realized he had stripped the raven badge from his shoulder.

  Hira Noh grinned. There was a fierce look in her eyes Kirian had never before seen on a woman’s face, as if she craved the upcoming danger. “So we must enjoy it while we can, yes?”

  “Jashan’s heart, I do not plan to enjoy it. But I will be at your side. Anything to save my lord Ander.”

  A creaking sound came from the street outside. They all stopped and listened. Kirian realized she was holding her breath. The creaking continued, moving down the street.

  “Just a sausage vendor, heading to market,” Balan said in a low voice. “We should move, Hon Hira Noh, or our plans will be ruined by daylight.”

  “Now.” Hira Noh bared her teeth. “I am ready. Rhin, gather the rest, and let us change the world today!”

  * * * * *

  It was easy. Exultation gripped him as he and Oron slipped past the third guard station. Oron was doing something with the color magery, something that Callo knew he would never be skilled enough to do; it bent the light so they could not be seen. Callo could detect some of the effect as a distortion that spread his vision out before him like drops of oil in a puddle. The old man was growing tired from this constant use of a demanding aspect of his talent.

  Footsteps echoed down the stone hall on the first floor. Callo and Oron stopped and withdrew into a parlor. The steps passed, probably an early-morning servant. It was growing light now, and there would be more people to avoid, but after the disturbance of the previous night it would be hours until the nobles stirred from their rooms.

  “One more staircase,” Callo said.

  “Go,” Oron said. “My strength is waning, and fighting this cursed bond—you must prepare yourself for the possibility I will soon be unable to help.”

  “What you have done is beyond my expectations,” Callo said. “Get me to the room where she is being held, and then get yourself to a place of safety. You are Lord Mage—they will not dare touch you without the King’s express word.”

  Oron smiled, as if he did not believe that. They crept out of the parlor and ran up the corner staircase to a room Callo was familiar with. He waved Oron away; the old man vanished around the corner. Then Callo closed his eyes and let his internal wall down, using the psychic magery to visit a deep torpor on the guard standing at the barred door. Once the man had slumped against the wall, he unlatched the door and went in, and released his psychic magery.

  The bed hangings twitched aside and Lady Dria Mar’s pale face peered out from the opening.

  “Do not cry out,” Callo said. “I have come to talk to you—that is all.”

  “I cannot believe you have dared to come into these rooms,” said Dria Mar. She pulled a robe around her and slid out of the bed. She sat in a chair by the barred window, where the pearly dawn light cast her features into shadow. She held her head as high as she had in the hall at Northgard where
she had confronted Callo. She wore a turban to restrain her curls, and even her nightrobe was sparked with tiny jewels at the collar. She looked plump as when he had last seen her and did not appear to be suffering from being confined to her rooms.

  Callo bowed. “There is no love lost between us, Lady Dria. Still, I know how you feel about your son. Your allegiance to him is stronger than anything else. That is why I wanted to speak with you.”

  “There are better ways to do that than to come sneaking into this chamber like a thief, or an assassin.”

  “I apologize. This was the only way I could get in to see you.”

  “Go on.” Her lips pursed. “I have little right to refuse you. His Majesty has forbidden me the right to command my own time. He holds me here because of what I did to you—but at least he has not dared to have his late brother’s wife slain.”

  “He does not know I am here.”

  Dria Mar’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know how you have eluded the net that was set for you. Why are you here, Royal Bastard?”

  “Do you receive any news in this place, Lady Dria?” Callo said. “Your son is very ill, near to death, I believe, and the cause is King Martan who uses the righ bond to leech his life from him.”

  She rose and approached him, stopping with her face a few inches from Callo’s chest. “He would not do such a thing. No, it is impossible even if he wished it.”

  “Mage Oron has confirmed it.”

  Her gaze dropped. After a moment of silence, Callo said: “I think you must finally admit I am not the one who seeks the throne of Righar. It is your royal brother-in-law who tries to arrange the succession to his liking.”

  She stepped away from him. Her voice was light as she responded to him. “I will no longer deny it. I am no fool, Lord Callo.”

  “I never thought you were that.”

  “So then, why are you here? Surely you do not wish to make common cause with me.”

  “I am going to try to save your son. I need your support, Lady Dria, for myself, but mostly for Hon Kirian.”

  “Your whore, yes,” Dria said with a malicious smirk.

  Callo restrained himself. He had no time for petty reactions now. “The Council heeds your word. I plan to break the bond between King Martan and your son, and I do not expect Sharpeyes to sit quietly and do as I say. When I succeed—” He paused as he saw her raise an eyebrow at his choice of words.

  “When I succeed,” he repeated, “I have plans to get out of the city. But you know we will be pursued. I would like to escape with my life, and not be tossed into some cell until I can be beheaded at Lord Dionar’s bidding. However, I ask nothing of you on my own account but only on Kirian’s. She must be allowed to go free.”

  “And you believe the Council will spare her if I speak for her?”

  Callo nodded. He held her gaze. This woman was as cold and as clever as a snake, but he would use her loyalty to her son to help Kirian get out of this mess alive. There was no way he could depend on his psychic magery to sway an entire room of righ for more than a few moments. Lady Dria Mar had the connections to speak for him—and even more importantly, for Kirian.

  “It is so,” she said. “Lord Dionar is a wayward ass, but he will listen or his rich lady wife will cut off his funds. The others—well, they know me, and they will do as I say.”

  “I have made other promises. You won’t like this, but you have the power to see it done—the Sword of Jashan must have a voice in the Council. They have been the swords behind this attempt.”

  She made a grimace of distaste. “Those scum, on the Council?”

  “If you want your son to assume his rightful position, that is the price. That is what I promised Hon Hira Noh for their aid. It will also mean Lord Ander will not need to worry about battling them during his first year or so as King. He will be able to turn his whole attention to the Ha’lasi threat.”

  She glared at him for a moment. He could almost see the calculations whirling in her head. Callo thought he could hear sounds on the other side of the door. He said: “Then what is your word, Lady Dria? I must move on this matter now, if Lord Ander is to survive.”

  “What are you waiting for? You have what you want. Go, Royal Bastard. And when you have succeeded, get you and your ku’an pollution as far away from Righar as you can because I will do everything I can to have you permanently removed from the line of succession.”

  “I would expect nothing else from you, Lady Dria,” Callo said. He bowed. “I will go then. Wish me well, if the words will pass your lips.”

  She glared at him from her chair. He permitted himself a smile and bowed to her. He turned and prepared to leave the room, but the door flew open and slammed into the wall. An armed guardsman loomed in the open doorway, his face grim.

  Dria Mar stood. “Seize him! He broke into my rooms. Seize him!”

  Another guard ran into the room. Callo tried to use the ku’an magery—he wanted to visit King Martan on his own terms, not as a prisoner once again.

  “Do not.” That was Oron, standing behind the second guardsman. His mage cloak swirled with red and orange, washing out the color in his face. “They will take us directly to the King. Will you not, men?”

  “To Lord Dionar,” the first guard said.

  “If you must call him, do that. But then you must take us directly to the King.”

  The guards looked at each other. Callo knew they were wondering what the Lord Mage was doing involved in this, and whether they should take his orders.

  “What are you waiting for?” Dria Mar snapped. “Do as he says. His Majesty has been searching for this man. Are you so stupid that you don’t know it?” She stood and glared at the men. “Send word to His Majesty, and have Lord Callo delivered to him at the place of the King’s direction. Go! I have had enough of all these men in this prison cell of a room.”

  The guards stepped behind Callo. One of them nudged him forward. “Yes, Lady Dria. Are you injured in any way? Has Lord Callo hurt you?”

  “No. Just go!” she said. “Now.”

  Mage Oron cast her an unreadable look and followed Callo and his guardsmen out of the room.

  * * * * *

  “You are a dangerous heir,” Sharpeyes said from the dais where he sat flanked by armed guards. “Like a snake that bites its handler.”

  “Thus it is, when you put a person into captivity and then expect him to follow you willingly,” Callo said.

  The guards around Sharpeyes’ chair were supplemented by two others, stationed at the door and window; by Mage Yhallin, who stood just off the dais; and by the Lord Commander, Dionar, with his hand already on his sword hilt. Mage Oron stood to the side. His status was uncertain; Callo had seen King Martan’s gray eyes on the old mage, evaluating—but there were no guards watching him, and no outer sign his loyalty was questioned.

  Behind Callo was an empty space where he wished he had someone else to support him; Chiss, or Balan, or even the unpredictable Hira Noh. The physical space was small, but it seemed almost insurmountable in his mind.

  The door opened enough to allow a guardsman to relay a message to his counterpart on the inside. The man on the inside came to stiff attention and said: “You Majesty, may I approach?”

  “You may give us your message from there, so everyone in the room may hear it.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. The conspirators have been arrested and are now in the cells awaiting your instructions on their final disposition.”

  “Give us their names,” the King said, his eyes on Callo.

  “That would be Hon Balan ran Gesset, and the servant Chiss, as well as a woman who has been identified as part of the terrorist group Sword of Jashan. There are five others who were apprehended near the Castle gates, also members of the Sword of Jashan.” The man bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  Callo felt the space at his back even emptier as he realized that instead of supporting him, his associates now needed his help. And he stood here like a rabbit under a hawk’s eye.
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  “I would have another prisoner for you, but a color mage of Oron’s stature is not to be contained in a cell,” Sharpeyes said. “What have you to say for yourself, Lord Mage?”

  Oron tucked his hands in his sleeves. His shoulders relaxed, as if he were free of a weight. “You know I cannot act against you, Your Majesty.”

  “I know no such thing. Your skill with the bond is unparalleled—you have taught me and helped me to place it. I can see the bond now, struggling to choke you. You hold it off—how you hold it off! You are strong, Lord Mage. But how have you dared to act against me?”

  Yhallin drifted to stand beside Oron. The old man gave her an unreadable look and said nothing. There was a strange attenuated look about him, as if the struggle against the bond was draining him.

  Sharpeyes smiled, but it did not reach his narrowed eyes. “I grow tired of you and your schemes. Can you hold this off, old man?” He raised a hand, and a bolt of mage lightning arced toward Oron. Oron raised both hands, palms out, as if to physically block the attack. His hands began to glow with magery. The King’s attack sparked out harmlessly against the shield Oron had raised to protect himself.

  Then Oron screamed. The sound raised every hair on Callo’s neck and arms. Violent red light began to stream from Oron’s open mouth, a glowing tendril that emerged like a living thing and wound about the old man’s neck. Oron gagged on it, the scream choking off. The cable of light wrapped around his face and neck and squeezed. Oron seized the thing with both hands and tried to wrench it away, but it dug into his skin. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.

  Grunts of reaction came from one of the guardsmen as he tried to contain his revulsion. Callo wanted to look away, to give Oron some dignity in his terrible death. Everyone else in the room stared, horrified. Oron’s face and neck were completely enveloped by the burning cable. The old man’s hands weakened and fell away. He crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving, except for the mage bond which still writhed about his face and neck.

  “All the gods,” whispered Yhallin, who had stepped back away from Oron. Her eyes were dark in her white face. Lord Dionar’s jaw was clenched as he forced himself to watch.